


Not with my [teeth]

by LaurelSilver



Series: Victimised [5]
Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Blood, Gang Violence, Gen, Glasgow Smile, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 05:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14687412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "You need to back up if you're not with my team!"J-Dog, Whatever It Takes.In which J-Dog is not mouthy. But he has visited Glasgow.





	Not with my [teeth]

**Author's Note:**

> This snuff film stars:  
> Victim; anyone you want it to be. The only requirement is that they have a lower jaw and tongue. Beyond that they can be anyone you hate. Call it catharsis. Gender doesn't matter, Victim is referred to as 'it'.  
> J-Dog; J-Dog.  
> (Also mentioned, Curly Fag is Da Kurlzz, Jizzy 2 Tits is Johnny 3 Tears)
> 
> Just to be very clear;  
> 1\. I have not done, nor do I have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fiction.  
> 2\. I don't think J-Dog has done, or has any intention of doing, anything described in this fic.  
> 3\. I do not encourage or condone anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fic. Recreating this fic, or anything similar, is illegal and immoral and very fucked up.  
> 4\. You are not obliged to read, finish reading if you start, or comment/kudos if you finish. There is no story here. It just mindless violence for no real reason.  
> 5\. Victim having any similarities to anyone real or fictional is unintentional.

The bag was ripped off Victim’s head and it blinked in the white light. The man passed it by, bag dropped, and he sat opposite it. He was eating a peach, cutting thick slices from the seed with a curved knife. Something glinted in his mouth every time he parted his lips.

Victim struggled. Its arms and legs were duct taped to the chair it was sat on, with another slice pasted over its lips. A lump of cloth had been shoved into its mouth and was soaking up all the moisture there, leaving it dry and choking as it panted through its nose. The chair didn’t move with it, bolted to the concrete below.

The man ignored it as it tried to scream through the tape. He wasn’t a large man, heavily inked with a triangular face and dense features. His clothes were old, ragged and stained all over with blood and bleach. Black fangs sat on his exposed throat, punched into the skin with looped writing either side. Letters sat on his knuckles and something loop-shaped on the back of his hands, his hands moving too much to make the shapes out. His lobes were stretched out into rings, and a black LA cap held his hair down. He sat there, foot almost rested on Victim’s knee. If Victim was untied, it could have reached forwards and touched him without rising from the chair.

Victim took a deep breath and screamed again. It managed a sound, the howl scratching and tearing up its dried throat. The man stopped mid-slice and looked up at the Victim. His face wasn’t particularly expressive, but the twitch of the eyebrows seemed surprised.

“You just can’t shut the fuck up, can you?” he said.

Victim tried to scream again. It only choked.

“Better,” the man said. His voice was a practised monotone. He sucked the last lump of flesh straight off the seed and tossed the husk off, and stood over Victim. He smelt strongly of weed and cheap beer. He looked Victim over with a pulled lip somewhere between a grimace and a sneer. “A little birdie told me you been running your mouth.”

Victim shook its head.

The man pressed the tip of the fruit knife under Victim’s throat. A line valleyed above his eyebrows. “See, I don’t like it too much when I hear people been talking shit about me and my boys.”

Victim panted. It dared shake its head again, a small, panicked wobble. The tip of the knife nicked its skin.

“No. You telling me you never ‘J-Dog’ in your mouth.”

Another head shake. Another nick of flesh.

The man, J-Dog, turned the knife under Victim’s chin and pressed up. The thin, wet blade dug into the soft flesh from jaw to jaw. Victim jerked back, then forwards again as its skin stretched and the wound tore wider.

J-Dog smiled, wide and forced, and slammed the knife clean into Victim’s thigh. Victim howled, its vocal cords dried and torn. The blood dripping down its throat was fresh and wet and almost taunting.

“You’re gonna have J-Dog in your mouth,” J-Dog said, and tore the tape from Victim’s mouth, “And you ain’t gonna like it so much.”

Victim choked on the stale air. There was a strong smell of chemicals, acidic, like vinegar.

“Please,” it croaked, “Please, I never said anything, please, I swear, please, I won’t tell-”

J-Dog seized it by the jaw, silencing it. Pain stung in its wound.

“You’re awful polite now you know I’m gonna hurt you,” he said.

Victim sobbed. J-Dog squeezed, his thumb and fingertips dug into Victim’s cheeks and forced it to drop its jaw. His face was tight, mouth a line and eyes narrowed. He pulled the knife from Victim’s thigh. Its yelp was spluttered and breathy, and it bit down on its own concaved cheeks.

Sharp pain cut into the corner of its mouth. Blood flooded its opened jaw, fresh and wet and metallic. It choked and struggled as J-Dog held it firm, his held mouth beginning to curve. He sliced the opposite corner and let go.

Blood frothed in Victim’s mouth as it breathed heavy. The elixir ran from its mouth, down its chin and onto its taped legs in two red streams.

“Ever been to Glasgow?” J-Dog said. He slammed the knife into Victim’s thigh again.

Pain flared and was forgotten almost instantly as Victim’s jaw dropped. Its skin stretched and tore from lips to ears, splitting flesh inaudible over Victim’s scream. Blood burst into its mouth from all sides and overspilled down its jaw and throat.

J-Dog pulled the fruit knife out again. He took Victim’s face in his hand and studied the jagged smile closely, chewing on his own lip. He traced the wound with the tip his knife. He sucked on his teeth and lip as he went, making a sloppy whistling noise. Silver clung to his canines like shiny fangs.

Victim shook with sobs, holding its mouth closed firm. It pulled on the tape again, the silver bonds not budging. By now, its blood was soaking into its collar and spreading down.

“You never answered,” J-Dog said. His voice was hoarse in Victim’s ear, “Ever been to Glasgow?”

The tip of the blade dug into Victim’s jaw, just in front of its ear. J-Dog twisted and wriggled the knife, working the metal into the joint, chewing his lip. He pressed it in and turned it sharply.

Victim spasmed. Its jaw popped with a short, loud squelch. The pain was a dull glug, lasting barely a second before it faded to an ache unnoticed in its smile. Blood squirted from the dislocation, hitting J-Dog in the face. He blinked at it and pulled away to Victim’s other side.

In, twist, pop. Squelch, squirt.

Victim struggled. Its jaw didn’t respond, only its tongue able to lap in the blood-bogged palate. Pain burned in every attempted movement.

J-Dog lifted his leg over Victim and lowered himself into Victim’s secured lap. The blood sprays dripped, one across his nose and the other down his cheek, and he grinned wide. The silver fangs twinkled and he barely blinked. The peak of his cap brushed Victim’s forehead. His breath was heavy, smelt strongly of fruit and alcohol, and seemed to whistle between his clenched teeth.

J-Dog grabbed Victim by the chin. He pressed the knife into the middle of Victim’s lower lip. The blade sliced through like butter and down, tracing a lazy line to the wound under Victim’s chin. Victim could barely register the pain anymore as it melted to one wet burn in its face.

The tip of the curved blade dug into the connecting corner of the wounds and under the skin. J-Dog worked the knife gently, chewing his lip again, body contorted against Victim’s to see as he picked the skin up one millimetre at a time. He caught the little flap he produced and pulled.

The skin peeled away like wet tape. The sensitive underside seemed to flinch as it was exposed to the cold air for the first time. Veins opened, pouring their red elixir down Victim’s cheek, chest, J-Dog’s straddling thighs.

Victim screamed incoherent vowel, pained and guttural. Tears streamed from its eyes, stinging down its opened cheek.

J-Dog peeled up Victim’s other cheek slower and a little clumsier as he crossed his wrists to reach. The skin pulled in sharper tugs and bigger clumps, more tears veining out from Victim’s gory smile. He leant back to study his work and grin again.

Victim whimpered and panted, lower face and torso crimson. The skin flaps hung like a floating shirt collar.

J-Dog sat up against Victim again. He pressed the blade into a long muscle in Victim’s cheek.

The muscle snapped apart as the tendon was severed. Victim’s screams froze in its throat at the snap of agony. J-Dog severed through the next tendon without even a pause.

Victim’s screams returned, short vowels at each snap. An ache tugged gently under its tongue as its lower jaw loosened one halved muscle at a time, lost in the severs and tears.

Snap after snap, J-Dog worked his way across Victim’s lower face, rounding under its lip and up towards the opposite ear. J-Dog took the naked jaw in his hand and tugged it down. Victim’s tongue followed, whined vowel widening. J-Dog snickered, pushing and pulling the mandible up and down, warping the tired scream to his amusement.

Victim sobbed, and the vowel choked to a stop. J-Dog scowled, deep lines burrowed into his brow and chin. He pulled the jaw down as far as it would go. Blood poured out, covering his front. The tongue hung there, open and vulnerable.

J-Dog crammed the knife as close to the back of Victim’s tongue as he could manage, his knuckles pressed into its upper molars. He sawed through the muscle a half-inch at a time.

The jaw dropped into his lap, tongue spasming in the bloody mandible. Victim howled, blood spilling from the severed muscle like a burst pipe, filling its scratchy throat and soaking J-Dog’s front as the red fountain flailed at random.

J-Dog picked up the jaw and climbed off of Victim’s lap. He sliced under the tongue and slid it out like an oyster out of its shell into a jar of off-yellow liquid. The blood seemed to float around the tongue as it mixed in, J-Dog twisting a lid onto the jar.

“I got a buddy who’ll want that,” he said as he dropped the tongueless jaw into a bucket.

The room filled with a strong chemical smell and a fizzing sound, and a couple of pitchy beeps. J-Dog picked his phone up from the table and flocked through, tutting and muttering as he went.

“Huh,” he said, and tongued his cheek, “I think we might have a case of mistaken identity here. Fuckin’ whoops.”

Victim groaned and its head rolled forwards. Its lungs emptied, and its heart gave up pumping too little blood now.

J-Dog took up the tongs and picked the remaining bone out of the bucket. He dropped it in the sink and ran the cold tap on it full blast as he typed on his phone. A vase emoji, a tongue emoji, and a question mark to ‘Curly Fag’. Open call to ‘Jizzy 2 Tits’. He shut off the water as the phone rang, picked up the jaw, and threw himself casually over Victim’s lap. He pulled his cap off, perching it on Victim’s bowed head like a hat stand.

“Hey,” he said as the phone was picked up with a possibly-drunk grunt, “So when the fuck are you bringing me the right fucking shit-talker, huh? What?” He perched the jaw piece on his head like a tiara as he spoke.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the least realistic one yet, and that's saying something.
> 
> "Ever been to Glasgow?" refers to Glasgow Smile, which is a method of torture depicted above in which the victim's lips are sliced at the corners and then they're beaten, their jaw drops in pain and the skin tears open. It was popular with Glasgow street gangs back in the 1920's, hence the name, and is also know as a Chelsea Grin in London due to its popularity amongst a Chelsea-based hoodlum gang.  
> "I got a buddy who'll want that." and the text to Curly refers to Om-nom-nom-nom, the last Victimised story, which depicted Da Kurlzz as a cannibal.  
> I'll leave it up to you if it actually was a case of mistaken identity.  
> J-Dog strikes me as the kind of guy who has most of his contacts saved as dumb/insulting nicknames. Or maybe its just me that does that.  
> The text to Curly ([vase][tongue]?) would just be 'pickled tongue?' in emoji.  
> Don't ask me what a pickled tongue would taste like, I wouldn't know. Probably rubbery.  
> The very end was inspired by short creepypasta [Daddy's Princess.](https://www.creepypasta.com/daddys-princess/)
> 
> I know this lyric's a bit shoehorned but I was really stuggling to find a J-Dog lyric I wanted to write about for someone. He's got a lot of awesome lines but none of them really struck me except 'You need to back up if you're not with my team' (Whatever it Takes, V). No clue why.  
> Go get some icecream. Or fruit pops, if you don't eat icecream. Either way, go cheer yourself up.


End file.
